How the Future's Done - A Future!AU fic - R (Part 2)
Exercise, Freddy discovers, is not as good as sex, no matter what the crazy people at the gym used to tell him. It's nice, don't get him wrong, with all the adrenaline and endorphins and whatnot, but it still isn't sex. It is, however, the closest he seems to be able to get, lately, so he's started going on runs with the dog like it's his profession. He's figured out that the longer he runs around with her, the longer she'll be dead to the world later, and thereby he will have a larger time window with which to potentially have sex. So far, it's yet to pan out. In fact, it's been, by Freddy's current count, ten days since he and Davey have had sex, hurried and near-silent in the shower. Davey's been too busy trying to beat the new interns at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra into shape, but with limited success. They had all, according to Davey, been dropped on their heads as infants. Repeatedly.
"I mean, I know I wasn't that smart as a teenager, but I was still so much smarter than they are," Davey had moaned over dinner the other night.
"You were plenty smart as a teenager," Freddy said, stabbing him with a fork.
"I dated you," Davey said. "Do you remember what you were like as a teenager?"
"I was awesome," Freddy said staunchly.
"You had a fedora," Davey said his voice full of despair, "and you thought it was cool."
"It is cool," Freddy said.
"There is no way I was that annoying," Davey said through a mouthful of green beans. "I mean, I got patted on the shoulder by Keith Lockhart. Twice."
"I still say you should have asked for a threesome." The fact that they never had a threesome with Keith Lockhart when they had a chance is still one of the greatest disappointments of Freddy's life, up there with learning that Santa wasn't real.
"Mmm," Davey had sighed dreamily, the conversation dwindling to a pre-ordained appreciative silence, "Keith Lockhart."
But Freddy isn't having sex with Keith Lockhart, or anyone, for that matter, and it's driving him crazy. He feels like his skin is too small and his bones are too big and he's cranky all the time. He's stressed, Davey's stressed, and he's tired of the stress and the tiredness and the tight feeling in his chest and dogs and grocery shopping and stupid interns and Davey's thesis. He wants. He wants all the time, and he can't have, and he's going nuts with not having, which is why he ends up going on half-hour long runs and dragging his dog along regardless of if she wants to or not.
He does feel kind of bad about it. Mitzi's tiny, and her legs are ridiculously short. Every easy step Freddy takes is roughly twenty for her, scrabbling to keep up with him. By the end of the run he's mostly tugging her along or carrying her under his arm as she pants pathetically. When he gets in the house, she drinks her entire water bowl in about five seconds flat and then toddles off to the living room on drunken legs, too exhausted to even greet Davey, who's once again holed up in the office, banging out his thesis. Freddy manages to shower, shave, and take out the trash before Davey even notices he's home.
"Congratulations," Davey says when Freddy comes back from the garbage disposal. "You killed the dog."
"Is she really that bad?" Freddy asks guiltily. "I mean, I carried her for the last fifteen minutes, I swear."
"She'll live," Davey says softly, putting down his glass of juice and sidling up to Freddy, which makes Freddy's heart go a little haywire, because oh my god, they are actually maybe going to have sex.
"Hi," Freddy manages hoarsely as Davey smiles up at him, twining his arms around Freddy's neck like they're slow dancing in place.
"You're staring at me," Davey says, pulling Freddy into the bedroom. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Just missed you," Freddy whispers when they reach the bed, his hands trembling against Davey's waist. "Missed you so much."
"So let me make it up to you," Davey whispers back, pulling Freddy down on the bed and they just stare at each other, breathing heavily. Freddy doesn't know which one of them moves first, or if it's a sort of gradual magnetic attraction, but one second he's fascinated by Davey's blossoming summer freckles and the next his eyes are closed and he's grabbing on to Davey's shoulders for dear life and kissing the fuck out of him.
Freddy doesn't know how many times he's kissed Davey. Hundreds, maybe thousands. When they'd first started going out he'd tried to count, but he'd stopped when he realized that it was impossible, when they were making out, to know when one kiss began and the other ended, and if they counted separately or all as one. The point was he'd kissed Davey a lot, and it still felt new every time they really got down to it, to see Davey's face tilted up towards his, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. Freddy will never stop wondering at the tiny soft spots his fingers unerringly find along the shell of Davey's ear and the corner of his chin, or the sharp, textured line of his jaw. Davey's mouth always seems enticingly, mysteriously pink, as sweet as the first time, and the second time, and every time after that.
"You're doing the staring thing again," Davey murmurs against his mouth, his eyes still closed and expectant. "It's annoying."
"You're pretty," Freddy whispers stupidly back.
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
"Make me," Davey says, and since that's such a good challenge, Freddy grabs himself an armful of boyfriend and kisses him, slow and considerate and deliberate, the way Davey likes it, because nothing makes Davey happier than long, drawn-out kisses. Sure enough, Davey makes a purring noise in the back of his throat and roll Freddy over, pinning him to the bed, settling them into a kissing haze where Freddy forgets everything except the taste of cinnamon and Davey and fleeting thoughts like it would be really unfortunate if the fire alarm went off right now. He doesn't think about sex, he doesn't think about being naked, he doesn't think about the fact that he and Davey are both hard and have been effectively cock-blocked by a dog for ten days, and that dog has a limited after-walk nap time and that they should probably get to the business of getting off or else they might be interrupted. He doesn't care. Mitzi has been exercised, she has peed about three days worth of urine before Freddy carried he up the stairs (seriously, it's amazing how much seems to fit in her tiny body), and Freddy refuses to move anywhere besides perhaps to the other side of the mattress. Slowly, he pulls away to look down at Davey, whose chest is heaving like he's the one who's run several miles, the hair by his neck sticking up from where Freddy's run his fingers through over and over until it duck-tails at bizarre angles.
"So pretty," Freddy says, pushing the bangs off of Davey's face and idly twisting them together. "So very, very pretty."
"Shut up" Davey days, bringing his arms around to rest at the small of Freddy's back. "Is that really all you want to do, sit and talk to me about my looks?"
"Patience, young Jedi," Freddy says severely, because while maybe getting off after ten days would be relief, it wouldn't be fun. And he wants to savor, he thinks. He wants to have fun. He pokes at Davey's ticklish sides and Davey starts shaking with punchy laughter under him. "I'm taking my time."
"Ah," Davey says, nodding sagely, "that's what the kids are calling it these days. They have pills for that, you know."
"Or maybe I'm just a tease," Freddy says, running his hand down Davey's thigh and feeling it quiver.
"Distinct possibility," Davey says, playing with the hem of Freddy's shirt. "How about savoring naked? Very, very naked. And sweaty."
"You do raise a good point," Freddy hums, flicking a few of Davey's shirt buttons open. "Please continue."
"Naked was my point."
"I'm now very worried about your thesis," Freddy says, opening the rest of Davey's shirt. "If you're just going to go throwing around statements without supporting arguments."
"I thought the point of us having sex was to take a break from my thesis," Davey groans. "I shouldn't have to make supporting arguments in favor of sex to you, of all people."
Freddy kisses Davey's ribs and listens to him make a whuffling laugh. "Tah dah," he says, resting his chin on Davey's belly when he's done. "That was a supporting argument."
"That is not a supporting argument!" Davey says, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring. "They aren't mutually exclusive! You can do that and not have sex! Like you are doing right now."
"Mmmmm, I never was any good at essays," Freddy says, playing with the button on Davey's jeans, which makes him make more delightful angry noises. "I just like it when you talk all nerdy to me."
"I hate you," Davey mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I hate you so very, very much."
"Payback's a bitch," Freddy says unrepentantly, moving his hand away from Davey's jeans.
"What are you paying me back for, anyways?"
"Being a tease," Freddy says. "It's not very nice."
"Excuse me?"
"Thursday," Freddy says, moving back up to kiss the side of Davey's neck and nipping hard enough to leave a hickey. "You wore your green plaid shirt." Davey makes a questioning noise. "My favorite shirt," Freddy clarifies. "The one that's sort of tight and makes your arms look good."
"It was clean," Davey said. "If you don't like it, don't do my laundry."
"Thursday night," Freddy goes on, as if he can't hear him, "you had a pudding cup and made little moaning noises while you ate it."
"It was butterscotch!"
"You also didn't let me lick it off you."
"I don't share butterscotch pudding cups."
"I know," Freddy says tragically. "It's not very nice."
"I'm sorry," Davey says. "If I share my pudding cups from now on, will you get naked?"
"I'm not done," Freddy says indignantly, pulling away from Davey's neck to look at his face. "I'm only on Thursday. It's Monday. I have a whole weekend's worth of grievances to tell you about. You're very unnecessarily sexy."
"I'm very sorry," Davey says repentantly, sighing and going still. "Please continue."
"Where was I?"
"Friday," Davey says. "Also, my neck."
"Thank you," Freddy says, deciding he's done with Davey's neck and moving down to Davey's collarbone, and giving it a quick kiss. "Friday, you put on Ain't Misbehavin', danced while you made dinner, and then when I tried to grope you during the movie, you told me to stop it because you wanted to watch."
"It was The Princess Bride!" Davey says. "You don't interrupt The Princess Bride!"
"You can recite the entire movie from memory," Freddy reminds him.
"You don't let me talk during Chet Baker."
"That's entirely different, you're not trying to have sex with me while I'm listening to Chet Baker, and if you were, I would be absolutely fine with that."
"But - "
"Saturday, you almost had sex with me," Freddy recounts, "but then the phone rang and you left me hanging."
"Okay, hold on," Davey says, sitting up and glaring, looking about as intimidating as someone with messed hair, an open shirt, a massive hard-on, and a developing hickey can. "That was my mother, and she said 'oh, I made too chocolate cheesecake and it's getting stale so I'm throwing it out if you don't come eat it now', and I was all 'I don't know, let me ask Freddy,' and you were the one who went 'your mom made chocolate cheesecake?' and grabbed the car keys."
"But it's your mother's chocolate cheesecake," Freddy whines righteously, "I have priorities."
"I'm not arguing with your priorities," Davey says. "I'm just saying, if you eat three slices, you can't say it's my fault we didn't have sex."
"It's your mother," Freddy says, "and that makes it your problem. Besides, you should have stopped me and made your mother put it in a tupperware."
"That is the most unreasonable thing I've ever heard," Davey scoffs. "I'm not complaining about your cheesecake pornography noises, am I?"
"And on Sunday," Freddy says quickly, as if saying it quickly will make Davey not remember what he's about to say, "your hair looked really cute."
"My hair?" Davey asks, blinking at him.
"You spent all day working on your thesis," Freddy mutters, drawing a squiggle on the sheets, "and you must have, I dunno, run your hands through it a lot, because it was sort of all..." he makes a few motions with his other hand, "hedgehog-y."
"Hedgehog-y." Davey repeats, smiling.
"It was cute," Freddy says defensively.
"So you find hedgehogs sexually attractive," Davey says, his smile widening.
"No, I - you know what, fine," Freddy says. "I try to tell you I think you're cute, and you just make fun of me."
"Aw, baby," Davey says, still looking like he's going to burst into laughter, "I'm sorry, you know I accept you and your fetish for small, spiky rodents."
"Are you going to let this one go?" Freddy asks hopefully. "One day?"
"Hmm," Davey says, shrugging out of his shirt, which makes Freddy's mouth go dry, watching his shoulders work, rounded and lightly freckled. He wants to bite them, but if he does, he will totally lose whatever game Davey's playing at. He swallows thickly as Davey leans over, draping his (wiry-strong, warm) arms over Freddy's shoulders and looking at him through his lashes. "I'll consider it. On one condition."
"Okay," Freddy says, hopelessly transfixed by the moving shadows on Davey's cheeks, slowly acquiring freckles from the early summer light. Davey grins and leans in, stopping just short of kissing him.
"Get naked," Davey whispers. "Now."
"Good idea," Freddy says, shucking off his t-shirt. "Excellent. Genius."
"Making love" is a stupid phrase, Freddy's always thought, for various reasons. There's the obvious sappiness involved in the whole thing - you can't really say the phrase without hating yourself, just a little. And then there's the idea that having sex somehow creates love, which Freddy's never gotten. He's had sex with a lot of people, and they fall into two different types - Davey an Not Davey. When the person isn't Davey, having sex has nothing to do with love at all, it's about release and victory over the mundane and staving off boredom and a bone-deep hunger. And with Davey, sex is so different that if it didn't end in the same sticky result, Freddy would think it was a completely separate act altogether. Only Davey ever feels like this or responds as gloriously, lighting up under Freddy's palms and arching into his kisses with a self-satisfied glow, like he's entitled to Freddy, like Freddy is his. It seems ridiculous to think that anything they do would be able to create more love, since when they're like this it already feels too-big and stifling, and Freddy knows for sure if he loved Davey any more fiercely, it would kill him. No one's meant to love another person this much, he thinks. No one's meant to, after more than ten years, still get butterflies when the person they love walks in the room unexpectedly. He should be over getting sweaty palms when Davey does something unconsciously sexy like lick food off of his fingers or stretch out the kinks in his back. Holding hands shouldn't make his heart grow three sizes and threaten to beat out of his chest anymore.
If anything, Freddy thinks what they do in the bedroom (or the couch, or the shower, or wherever he can manage) is physically dealing with all that excess love that gets too heavy and inconvenient to carry around all the time. If he pours all of that pent up emotion into kissing Davey's ribs and tracing his hips, he can go through his life like a semi-sane human being. If he runs his hands over the sweat-slick curve of Davey's spine enough, if he buries himself in Davey deep enough, if he kisses him enough times, maybe he'll be able to make it through the next stretch of time he has to go not doing these things. Maybe it will make it that much easier. It never does, but Freddy lives in hope. He hopes and hopes and breathes hot against Davey's neck and hopes some more that maybe this time will be enough and then hopes that it won't, because having someone you love so much like this is too good, and he's going to need to experience it roughly two billion more times before he even thinks about stopping.
"I love you," Davey whispers when they're done, glowing and sated. His hair is golden from the backlit glow of their windows, which are filled with the color and burn of twilight. He's not really able to do much but watch Freddy through heavy-lidded eyes, his fingers stroking back and forth over Freddy's bellybutton like he's drugged. "You don't even know how much."
"Yeah I do," Freddy says confidently, pulling at Davey, who curls around him with a satisfied sigh, like he was waiting for someone with control of their limbs to do just that for him. "'Cause take that much and multiply it by ten, and that's how much I love you." He feels Davey's whuffling laugh against his neck.
"It isn't a competition, Freddy," Davey says.
"No," Freddy replies calmly, "it's the truth."
- - -
Freddy, after admitting to Davey that yes, ten days of no sex does make sex just a little bit better (but not, he points out, so good that having sex at least ten times wouldn't have made that difference moot in the first place), puts his foot down. Metaphorically.
"This is never happening again," he says to Davey, after they both manage to get up and stumble to the kitchen for all-you-can-eat cold leftover night.
"Absolutely," Davey says, eying a container. "Is this battered squid? This is why I don't let you order."
"I meant the no-sex thing," Freddy says, grabbing the squid from Davey before he throws it out and stuffing some pointedly in his mouth. "I'm a man. I have needs. I'm pretty sure we have a contract somewhere explicitly stating this."
"I'm pretty sure we don't," Davey mutters darkly, sniffing a container and pulling a face before it goes in the garbage disposal stack.
"Well when we get married, it's in our vows," Freddy says staunchly. "Right after for richer or poorer, we're both going to pledge to never go more than four days without having sex, unless separated by several hundred miles or deathly ill."
"I'm sure that will go over really well," Davey says absently. He's only wearing boxers (with Christmas lights, because Davey thinks irony is hilarious) and one of Freddy's old t-shirts and his head is still stuck in the refrigerator and he's bent over so his kind of amazing ass is right in Freddy's face. If leftover squid wasn't so delicious and Davey didn't have weird hangups about having sex around food for sanitary reasons, Freddy would be forced to have sex with Davey again right there, just out of sheer aesthetic appreciation.
"I mean it," Freddy says firmly. "We're training that dog and we are having a sex life again, or I am auctioning her off to the highest bidder."
"If you do that, I will kill you, and then you'll never have sex again. Leave it," Davey says without missing a beat, lifting up Mitzi from where she's toddled in to sniff and paw with extreme interest and the few containers that resemble nothing more than bizarre science experiments. Mitzi stays in Davey's lap, but Freddy's pretty sure that's because she's getting a front-row seat to the refrigerator rummage.
"I want to eat again," Freddy whines. "And have sex, and leave the house, and be alone when I want to sit on the toilet."
"She's just a puppy," Davey says, putting the said puppy on the floor while he goes to the sink to rinse his stack of moldy containers out. "She'll grow out of these things."
"That's what you think," Freddy says darkly, nudging her away when she starts scratching and begging at his feet. "But she won't, and then she won't be a puppy, and then she'll be impossible, and then you'll be the one begging me to drown her because it isn't cute anymore."
"Since when are you such a disciplinarian?" Davey asks, turning around and raising one eyebrow.
"Since I was denied sex," Freddy says, using his finger to get the last crumbs of batter out before letting the paper carton sail into the garbage, where it makes a perfect three pointer. He raises his arms in silent victory.
"Fine," Davey sighs, turning back to the task at hand. "I'll find out about puppy training, though it's not going to do any good. She's only bad around the apartment, you know. We take her anywhere else and they'll think we make this stuff up."
"I know," Freddy says, because it's true. Mitzi is the perfect angel everywhere else they go, and Regina was about ten seconds away from yelling at Freddy for lying about Mitzi's misadventures before Davey had verified his story. The dog is sneaky, he'll give her that. "But it can't hurt, can it? I mean -"
"Ten days, no sex, got it," Davey says, leaning down to kiss Freddy before grabbing more food from the fridge. "Blech," he says, making a face when he pulls away. "I am only doing this on the condition that you never ordering battered squid again."
"Deal," Freddy says, because worse comes to worse, he can just invest heavily in mouthwash, but you can't invest in sex you're not having.
- - -
It never ceases to amaze Freddy how much free stuff Davey manages to get just by virtue of being Davey. If Davey asks for anything in stores, he always manages somehow not just get a sample or discount, but to have it put on the house with a wink and a smile. "It's not that complicated," Davey always swears. "People do these things for you if you don't yell at them or make snide comments."
"People do that because you're so fucking cute and they're trying to steal you from me," Freddy says. "I worked in retail. I saw how that saleslady was looking at you." And then Davey always gets all flustered and flushed and adorable, and Freddy stops being angry, because:
a) free shit
b) Davey is so cute he wants to die, and
c) this just proves the saleslady has excellent taste.
But the point is, Davey comes home one day, and after kissing him hello says, "So Mitzi's going to have a trainer come to the house."
"I thought we ruled out me turning tricks on street corners," Freddy says, blinking at Davey.
"For free," Davey says proudly, like this never happens. "Turns out Travis -"
"Who?"
"Intern," Davey says. "Tall kid, black, plays cello..."
"No idea," Freddy says. Davey's got five interns and he couldn't tell the little bastards apart if there was a gun to his head.
"Crush on Anya," Davey reminds him. It's taken Davey two weeks, but he's finally sorted out that the reason all the interns are horrible is because they're too nerdy and repressed to deal with their rampant hormones. Freddy had spent an entire night explaining why this caused inefficiency in normal adolescents before Davey came up with a terribly complicated and ever-rotating responsibilities chart that has somehow managed to evolve due to fluctuating crushes and produce a professional, productive atmosphere, which Freddy thinks is both genius and ridiculously, amazingly adorable.
"Now runs the copy machine?" Freddy asks.
"Yeah," Davey says, "and he does the coffee runs too, because Sophie and Dustin hooked up in the strings storage closet and now Emily's mad at both of them."
"And this has to do with our demonic dog because?" Freddy asks, gesturing for Davey to go on.
"Apparently his mom is starting up a training business and needs good references," Davey says, "plus, this is the only time Travis hasn't been fired for being an incompetent idiot, so she's pretty grateful."
"Don't you not have the power to fire interns?" Freddy asked. "Didn't you already try that with Dustin because he's a man-whore who ruins your glorious chart at least once a week?"
"Yeah," Davey says tiredly, "but are you really going to tell that to the very nice lady who wants to train the beast for free?"
"No," says Freddy. "And by the way, Mitzi chewed a hole in your X-marks-the-spot boxers today. And not even on the X, either."
"Bummer," Davey says, sounding too tired to really care as he leans his head on Freddy's shoulder.
- - -
Freddy is absolutely terrified of their new trainer, Jill. She's just a little taller than Davey, and her large, poofy ponytail tickles Freddy's chin whenever she whirls around. She is scary and efficient and Freddy thinks she's either going to go on an organizing binge in their apartment or murder them in their sleep. And, in his defense, the dog is also petrified of her.
"Of course the dog is petrified of her," Davey hisses to Freddy, who is standing arms crossed in the kitchen and glaring as Jill sits down as if meditating, waiting for Mitzi to come out from under the table. "She's going to whip her into shape, I bet she can, like, smell it. Plus, you're acting all freaked out."
"I'm freaked out because our dog's freaked out!" Freddy whispers defensively. "She loves everyone including our fucking creepy super, okay? And she's hiding with her tail between her legs."
"Calm down," Davey says, "look, she's coming out from under the table." Freddy watches suspiciously as their dog slinks out from behind the chair, ears flat, belly to the ground, tail standing straight out and quivering. Calmly, Jill offers one hand to Mitzi to sniff. She does, slowly, gives it a tiny lick, and then runs back over to hide behind Freddy and Davey's feet. "She's kind of wimpy," Davey says apologetically, picking Mitzi up, her tiny paws curling around his neck.
"That's because you let her be that way," Jill says, radiating and distant disapproval as she stands up, like she thinks they're a bunch of morons but doesn't really care about them at all. It's Freddy's least favorite kind of disapproval, and he doesn't really like it in any form at all. "If you had continued to ignore her, she would have been fine."
"She would have cried," Freddy says defensively. "That's not," he makes air quotes, "fine."
"She's doing it because she knows it gets your attention," Jill says. Her eyes are large and buggy behind her glasses, and Freddy thinks perhaps they can see his soul. "You have to set boundaries, and you have to stick to them. Right now, she's in charge."
"She can't be in charge," Freddy argues, even though he knows that Jill is right, the dog is running their lives, and if she wasn't, Jill wouldn't be there. "I can pick her up. That makes me in charge."
"I see," Jill says calmly. "And Freddy, who would you say wears the pants in your relationship, you or Davey?"
"But our dog doesn't wear pants," Davey interjects weakly while Freddy's gaping.
"I meant, who's in charge?"
"Me," Freddy says, his brow furrowed. Next to him, Davey coughs. "What?" Freddy asks, turning to him.
"No, you're right," Davey says guilelessly. "You're completely in charge. I follow everything you say." Freddy is getting the distinct impression that this is one of those conversations he's going to regret having.
"What?" He asks. "Was I supposed to say something different?"
"Of course not," Davey says, eyes wide and innocent. "After all, you're in charge, so you know exactly what to say."
"I..." Freddy closes his mouth, opens it, and closes it again. "I hate you," he finally mutters.
"So as I have just demonstrated," Jill says smoothly, "size has nothing to do with who is in control."
Freddy hates when other people are right, which is why he still hates Davey, and his stupidly attractive face, and their stupidly cute dog, and everything, which is just fucking stupid. He folds his arms and glares.
- - -
After two weeks, Freddy grudgingly accepts that Jill is a miracle worker. He's been able to have sex for four days in a row, and on the fourth day, after his requisite rest period, he rolls over to a sleepy, nuzzling Davey and gets to have sex with him again.
"I love you," he says to Jill before she's even come into their apartment.
"Have you told Davey this?" she asks, stepping inside. Mitzi has learned to recognize her now and comes running full tear from the office with Davey in tow, twining hopefully around her legs and doing a shuffly little happy dance.
"Told me what?" Davey asks. His hair is sticking up, which means that the research he'd buried himself into is not going as planned. Freddy reaches over to smooth it down instinctively.
"Told her we're threesome-marrying her," Freddy says. "Because we've been having a lot of sex again."
"Freddy," Davey hisses, turning bright red.
"It's okay," Jill says with a small grin. "Travis' baby sister magically came nine months after he learned to sleep through the night."
"Wow, so many things that did not need to be said are being said," Davey says, twisting out of the grasp of Freddy's inquisitive hands.
"How has the puppy been?" Jill asks, smoothly changing the subject. "Still sits? Understands leave it?"
"Yeah," Freddy says, looking at Davey for support. "Asks to go out, stays, hasn't been bothering us..."
"Except at night," Davey reminds him. "Won't sleep in her bed, remember?"
"That's because it's ugly, Freddy says. "I wouldn't sleep in it either." Somehow, and Freddy doesn't understand why, the bed had lived through The Great Pink Purge. Davey thinks it's cute, with all it's sherbet-colored pinstripes. Freddy thinks it makes him want to vomit. But Mitzi has already grown out of her pink puppy collar and into a smart red leather one, so Freddy keeps his mouth shut, though this is more out of a lack of willingness to find a new one more than any love he has for Davey.
"Well, I wouldn't worry about that too much," Jill says. "She's always slept in bed with you."
"I like her in bed," Davey says, leaning down to pick up Mitzi and cuddling her to him as if Freddy is trying to rip his baby from his arms.
"And I like morning sex," Freddy says. "Also, I'm cuter."
"If I could interrupt," Jill says, "there is a way to make her like her bed more and be willing to sleep there unless invited that's quite simple. Do either of you have old t-shirts you don't want anymore?"
"Freddy does," Davey says darkly. "Why?"
"I think she'll go easier if she can smell you two," Jill says, leading the way into the bedroom, which is messier than Davey would like, if Freddy is reading his tense shoulders correctly as he rummages for two old t-shirts in their "do not wear except for dire straits" drawer.
"Here," Davey says, handing over an undershirt of his that's bordering on see-through and an old gray shirt of Freddy's with navy writing.
"Aw, no way," Freddy whines, "are you giving her that shirt Franz gave me?"
"Yes," Davey says.
"It's the coolest shirt ever," Freddy begs. "I got it from for my twenty-first birthday!"
"It says 'FBI - Female Body Inspector' on it," Davey said. "Do I really need to explain myself?"
"It's ironic, Freddy explains patiently. "Hence the hilarity." Davey just levels an eyebrow, and Freddy sighs. "Fine," he says. "I sacrifice it in the name of morning sex."
"Thank you," Davey says, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and watching Jill cover the bed with the two shirts, Mitzi peeking out of Davey's arms, her ears pricked forward excitedly.
"Lets see how she likes it," Jill says, giving a last tug so most of the wording on Freddy's shirt is obscured by the hem of Davey's. "Let her down." Gingerly, Davey sets Mitzi on the floor and she makes a beeline for Jill, tail wagging and paws flailing everywhere before skidding to a stop in front of her covered bed. She stops and sniffs it before her tail starts up again and she ventures onto it, turning around in three circles and then collapsing with a sigh, looking upwards for approval.
"Oh my god," Davey says, his voice tiny and awed. "You are a genius."
Freddy blinks down at their now-covered (non-ugly, not girly) dog bed and their now-obedient dog, and then at Jill, her face as impassive as ever. "I think I want to make out with you," he says hoarsely.
"That's quite alright," Jill says.
- - -
Part Three
"I mean, I know I wasn't that smart as a teenager, but I was still so much smarter than they are," Davey had moaned over dinner the other night.
"You were plenty smart as a teenager," Freddy said, stabbing him with a fork.
"I dated you," Davey said. "Do you remember what you were like as a teenager?"
"I was awesome," Freddy said staunchly.
"You had a fedora," Davey said his voice full of despair, "and you thought it was cool."
"It is cool," Freddy said.
"There is no way I was that annoying," Davey said through a mouthful of green beans. "I mean, I got patted on the shoulder by Keith Lockhart. Twice."
"I still say you should have asked for a threesome." The fact that they never had a threesome with Keith Lockhart when they had a chance is still one of the greatest disappointments of Freddy's life, up there with learning that Santa wasn't real.
"Mmm," Davey had sighed dreamily, the conversation dwindling to a pre-ordained appreciative silence, "Keith Lockhart."
But Freddy isn't having sex with Keith Lockhart, or anyone, for that matter, and it's driving him crazy. He feels like his skin is too small and his bones are too big and he's cranky all the time. He's stressed, Davey's stressed, and he's tired of the stress and the tiredness and the tight feeling in his chest and dogs and grocery shopping and stupid interns and Davey's thesis. He wants. He wants all the time, and he can't have, and he's going nuts with not having, which is why he ends up going on half-hour long runs and dragging his dog along regardless of if she wants to or not.
He does feel kind of bad about it. Mitzi's tiny, and her legs are ridiculously short. Every easy step Freddy takes is roughly twenty for her, scrabbling to keep up with him. By the end of the run he's mostly tugging her along or carrying her under his arm as she pants pathetically. When he gets in the house, she drinks her entire water bowl in about five seconds flat and then toddles off to the living room on drunken legs, too exhausted to even greet Davey, who's once again holed up in the office, banging out his thesis. Freddy manages to shower, shave, and take out the trash before Davey even notices he's home.
"Congratulations," Davey says when Freddy comes back from the garbage disposal. "You killed the dog."
"Is she really that bad?" Freddy asks guiltily. "I mean, I carried her for the last fifteen minutes, I swear."
"She'll live," Davey says softly, putting down his glass of juice and sidling up to Freddy, which makes Freddy's heart go a little haywire, because oh my god, they are actually maybe going to have sex.
"Hi," Freddy manages hoarsely as Davey smiles up at him, twining his arms around Freddy's neck like they're slow dancing in place.
"You're staring at me," Davey says, pulling Freddy into the bedroom. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Just missed you," Freddy whispers when they reach the bed, his hands trembling against Davey's waist. "Missed you so much."
"So let me make it up to you," Davey whispers back, pulling Freddy down on the bed and they just stare at each other, breathing heavily. Freddy doesn't know which one of them moves first, or if it's a sort of gradual magnetic attraction, but one second he's fascinated by Davey's blossoming summer freckles and the next his eyes are closed and he's grabbing on to Davey's shoulders for dear life and kissing the fuck out of him.
Freddy doesn't know how many times he's kissed Davey. Hundreds, maybe thousands. When they'd first started going out he'd tried to count, but he'd stopped when he realized that it was impossible, when they were making out, to know when one kiss began and the other ended, and if they counted separately or all as one. The point was he'd kissed Davey a lot, and it still felt new every time they really got down to it, to see Davey's face tilted up towards his, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheeks. Freddy will never stop wondering at the tiny soft spots his fingers unerringly find along the shell of Davey's ear and the corner of his chin, or the sharp, textured line of his jaw. Davey's mouth always seems enticingly, mysteriously pink, as sweet as the first time, and the second time, and every time after that.
"You're doing the staring thing again," Davey murmurs against his mouth, his eyes still closed and expectant. "It's annoying."
"You're pretty," Freddy whispers stupidly back.
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
"Make me," Davey says, and since that's such a good challenge, Freddy grabs himself an armful of boyfriend and kisses him, slow and considerate and deliberate, the way Davey likes it, because nothing makes Davey happier than long, drawn-out kisses. Sure enough, Davey makes a purring noise in the back of his throat and roll Freddy over, pinning him to the bed, settling them into a kissing haze where Freddy forgets everything except the taste of cinnamon and Davey and fleeting thoughts like it would be really unfortunate if the fire alarm went off right now. He doesn't think about sex, he doesn't think about being naked, he doesn't think about the fact that he and Davey are both hard and have been effectively cock-blocked by a dog for ten days, and that dog has a limited after-walk nap time and that they should probably get to the business of getting off or else they might be interrupted. He doesn't care. Mitzi has been exercised, she has peed about three days worth of urine before Freddy carried he up the stairs (seriously, it's amazing how much seems to fit in her tiny body), and Freddy refuses to move anywhere besides perhaps to the other side of the mattress. Slowly, he pulls away to look down at Davey, whose chest is heaving like he's the one who's run several miles, the hair by his neck sticking up from where Freddy's run his fingers through over and over until it duck-tails at bizarre angles.
"So pretty," Freddy says, pushing the bangs off of Davey's face and idly twisting them together. "So very, very pretty."
"Shut up" Davey days, bringing his arms around to rest at the small of Freddy's back. "Is that really all you want to do, sit and talk to me about my looks?"
"Patience, young Jedi," Freddy says severely, because while maybe getting off after ten days would be relief, it wouldn't be fun. And he wants to savor, he thinks. He wants to have fun. He pokes at Davey's ticklish sides and Davey starts shaking with punchy laughter under him. "I'm taking my time."
"Ah," Davey says, nodding sagely, "that's what the kids are calling it these days. They have pills for that, you know."
"Or maybe I'm just a tease," Freddy says, running his hand down Davey's thigh and feeling it quiver.
"Distinct possibility," Davey says, playing with the hem of Freddy's shirt. "How about savoring naked? Very, very naked. And sweaty."
"You do raise a good point," Freddy hums, flicking a few of Davey's shirt buttons open. "Please continue."
"Naked was my point."
"I'm now very worried about your thesis," Freddy says, opening the rest of Davey's shirt. "If you're just going to go throwing around statements without supporting arguments."
"I thought the point of us having sex was to take a break from my thesis," Davey groans. "I shouldn't have to make supporting arguments in favor of sex to you, of all people."
Freddy kisses Davey's ribs and listens to him make a whuffling laugh. "Tah dah," he says, resting his chin on Davey's belly when he's done. "That was a supporting argument."
"That is not a supporting argument!" Davey says, propping himself up on his elbows and glaring. "They aren't mutually exclusive! You can do that and not have sex! Like you are doing right now."
"Mmmmm, I never was any good at essays," Freddy says, playing with the button on Davey's jeans, which makes him make more delightful angry noises. "I just like it when you talk all nerdy to me."
"I hate you," Davey mutters, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I hate you so very, very much."
"Payback's a bitch," Freddy says unrepentantly, moving his hand away from Davey's jeans.
"What are you paying me back for, anyways?"
"Being a tease," Freddy says. "It's not very nice."
"Excuse me?"
"Thursday," Freddy says, moving back up to kiss the side of Davey's neck and nipping hard enough to leave a hickey. "You wore your green plaid shirt." Davey makes a questioning noise. "My favorite shirt," Freddy clarifies. "The one that's sort of tight and makes your arms look good."
"It was clean," Davey said. "If you don't like it, don't do my laundry."
"Thursday night," Freddy goes on, as if he can't hear him, "you had a pudding cup and made little moaning noises while you ate it."
"It was butterscotch!"
"You also didn't let me lick it off you."
"I don't share butterscotch pudding cups."
"I know," Freddy says tragically. "It's not very nice."
"I'm sorry," Davey says. "If I share my pudding cups from now on, will you get naked?"
"I'm not done," Freddy says indignantly, pulling away from Davey's neck to look at his face. "I'm only on Thursday. It's Monday. I have a whole weekend's worth of grievances to tell you about. You're very unnecessarily sexy."
"I'm very sorry," Davey says repentantly, sighing and going still. "Please continue."
"Where was I?"
"Friday," Davey says. "Also, my neck."
"Thank you," Freddy says, deciding he's done with Davey's neck and moving down to Davey's collarbone, and giving it a quick kiss. "Friday, you put on Ain't Misbehavin', danced while you made dinner, and then when I tried to grope you during the movie, you told me to stop it because you wanted to watch."
"It was The Princess Bride!" Davey says. "You don't interrupt The Princess Bride!"
"You can recite the entire movie from memory," Freddy reminds him.
"You don't let me talk during Chet Baker."
"That's entirely different, you're not trying to have sex with me while I'm listening to Chet Baker, and if you were, I would be absolutely fine with that."
"But - "
"Saturday, you almost had sex with me," Freddy recounts, "but then the phone rang and you left me hanging."
"Okay, hold on," Davey says, sitting up and glaring, looking about as intimidating as someone with messed hair, an open shirt, a massive hard-on, and a developing hickey can. "That was my mother, and she said 'oh, I made too chocolate cheesecake and it's getting stale so I'm throwing it out if you don't come eat it now', and I was all 'I don't know, let me ask Freddy,' and you were the one who went 'your mom made chocolate cheesecake?' and grabbed the car keys."
"But it's your mother's chocolate cheesecake," Freddy whines righteously, "I have priorities."
"I'm not arguing with your priorities," Davey says. "I'm just saying, if you eat three slices, you can't say it's my fault we didn't have sex."
"It's your mother," Freddy says, "and that makes it your problem. Besides, you should have stopped me and made your mother put it in a tupperware."
"That is the most unreasonable thing I've ever heard," Davey scoffs. "I'm not complaining about your cheesecake pornography noises, am I?"
"And on Sunday," Freddy says quickly, as if saying it quickly will make Davey not remember what he's about to say, "your hair looked really cute."
"My hair?" Davey asks, blinking at him.
"You spent all day working on your thesis," Freddy mutters, drawing a squiggle on the sheets, "and you must have, I dunno, run your hands through it a lot, because it was sort of all..." he makes a few motions with his other hand, "hedgehog-y."
"Hedgehog-y." Davey repeats, smiling.
"It was cute," Freddy says defensively.
"So you find hedgehogs sexually attractive," Davey says, his smile widening.
"No, I - you know what, fine," Freddy says. "I try to tell you I think you're cute, and you just make fun of me."
"Aw, baby," Davey says, still looking like he's going to burst into laughter, "I'm sorry, you know I accept you and your fetish for small, spiky rodents."
"Are you going to let this one go?" Freddy asks hopefully. "One day?"
"Hmm," Davey says, shrugging out of his shirt, which makes Freddy's mouth go dry, watching his shoulders work, rounded and lightly freckled. He wants to bite them, but if he does, he will totally lose whatever game Davey's playing at. He swallows thickly as Davey leans over, draping his (wiry-strong, warm) arms over Freddy's shoulders and looking at him through his lashes. "I'll consider it. On one condition."
"Okay," Freddy says, hopelessly transfixed by the moving shadows on Davey's cheeks, slowly acquiring freckles from the early summer light. Davey grins and leans in, stopping just short of kissing him.
"Get naked," Davey whispers. "Now."
"Good idea," Freddy says, shucking off his t-shirt. "Excellent. Genius."
"Making love" is a stupid phrase, Freddy's always thought, for various reasons. There's the obvious sappiness involved in the whole thing - you can't really say the phrase without hating yourself, just a little. And then there's the idea that having sex somehow creates love, which Freddy's never gotten. He's had sex with a lot of people, and they fall into two different types - Davey an Not Davey. When the person isn't Davey, having sex has nothing to do with love at all, it's about release and victory over the mundane and staving off boredom and a bone-deep hunger. And with Davey, sex is so different that if it didn't end in the same sticky result, Freddy would think it was a completely separate act altogether. Only Davey ever feels like this or responds as gloriously, lighting up under Freddy's palms and arching into his kisses with a self-satisfied glow, like he's entitled to Freddy, like Freddy is his. It seems ridiculous to think that anything they do would be able to create more love, since when they're like this it already feels too-big and stifling, and Freddy knows for sure if he loved Davey any more fiercely, it would kill him. No one's meant to love another person this much, he thinks. No one's meant to, after more than ten years, still get butterflies when the person they love walks in the room unexpectedly. He should be over getting sweaty palms when Davey does something unconsciously sexy like lick food off of his fingers or stretch out the kinks in his back. Holding hands shouldn't make his heart grow three sizes and threaten to beat out of his chest anymore.
If anything, Freddy thinks what they do in the bedroom (or the couch, or the shower, or wherever he can manage) is physically dealing with all that excess love that gets too heavy and inconvenient to carry around all the time. If he pours all of that pent up emotion into kissing Davey's ribs and tracing his hips, he can go through his life like a semi-sane human being. If he runs his hands over the sweat-slick curve of Davey's spine enough, if he buries himself in Davey deep enough, if he kisses him enough times, maybe he'll be able to make it through the next stretch of time he has to go not doing these things. Maybe it will make it that much easier. It never does, but Freddy lives in hope. He hopes and hopes and breathes hot against Davey's neck and hopes some more that maybe this time will be enough and then hopes that it won't, because having someone you love so much like this is too good, and he's going to need to experience it roughly two billion more times before he even thinks about stopping.
"I love you," Davey whispers when they're done, glowing and sated. His hair is golden from the backlit glow of their windows, which are filled with the color and burn of twilight. He's not really able to do much but watch Freddy through heavy-lidded eyes, his fingers stroking back and forth over Freddy's bellybutton like he's drugged. "You don't even know how much."
"Yeah I do," Freddy says confidently, pulling at Davey, who curls around him with a satisfied sigh, like he was waiting for someone with control of their limbs to do just that for him. "'Cause take that much and multiply it by ten, and that's how much I love you." He feels Davey's whuffling laugh against his neck.
"It isn't a competition, Freddy," Davey says.
"No," Freddy replies calmly, "it's the truth."
- - -
Freddy, after admitting to Davey that yes, ten days of no sex does make sex just a little bit better (but not, he points out, so good that having sex at least ten times wouldn't have made that difference moot in the first place), puts his foot down. Metaphorically.
"This is never happening again," he says to Davey, after they both manage to get up and stumble to the kitchen for all-you-can-eat cold leftover night.
"Absolutely," Davey says, eying a container. "Is this battered squid? This is why I don't let you order."
"I meant the no-sex thing," Freddy says, grabbing the squid from Davey before he throws it out and stuffing some pointedly in his mouth. "I'm a man. I have needs. I'm pretty sure we have a contract somewhere explicitly stating this."
"I'm pretty sure we don't," Davey mutters darkly, sniffing a container and pulling a face before it goes in the garbage disposal stack.
"Well when we get married, it's in our vows," Freddy says staunchly. "Right after for richer or poorer, we're both going to pledge to never go more than four days without having sex, unless separated by several hundred miles or deathly ill."
"I'm sure that will go over really well," Davey says absently. He's only wearing boxers (with Christmas lights, because Davey thinks irony is hilarious) and one of Freddy's old t-shirts and his head is still stuck in the refrigerator and he's bent over so his kind of amazing ass is right in Freddy's face. If leftover squid wasn't so delicious and Davey didn't have weird hangups about having sex around food for sanitary reasons, Freddy would be forced to have sex with Davey again right there, just out of sheer aesthetic appreciation.
"I mean it," Freddy says firmly. "We're training that dog and we are having a sex life again, or I am auctioning her off to the highest bidder."
"If you do that, I will kill you, and then you'll never have sex again. Leave it," Davey says without missing a beat, lifting up Mitzi from where she's toddled in to sniff and paw with extreme interest and the few containers that resemble nothing more than bizarre science experiments. Mitzi stays in Davey's lap, but Freddy's pretty sure that's because she's getting a front-row seat to the refrigerator rummage.
"I want to eat again," Freddy whines. "And have sex, and leave the house, and be alone when I want to sit on the toilet."
"She's just a puppy," Davey says, putting the said puppy on the floor while he goes to the sink to rinse his stack of moldy containers out. "She'll grow out of these things."
"That's what you think," Freddy says darkly, nudging her away when she starts scratching and begging at his feet. "But she won't, and then she won't be a puppy, and then she'll be impossible, and then you'll be the one begging me to drown her because it isn't cute anymore."
"Since when are you such a disciplinarian?" Davey asks, turning around and raising one eyebrow.
"Since I was denied sex," Freddy says, using his finger to get the last crumbs of batter out before letting the paper carton sail into the garbage, where it makes a perfect three pointer. He raises his arms in silent victory.
"Fine," Davey sighs, turning back to the task at hand. "I'll find out about puppy training, though it's not going to do any good. She's only bad around the apartment, you know. We take her anywhere else and they'll think we make this stuff up."
"I know," Freddy says, because it's true. Mitzi is the perfect angel everywhere else they go, and Regina was about ten seconds away from yelling at Freddy for lying about Mitzi's misadventures before Davey had verified his story. The dog is sneaky, he'll give her that. "But it can't hurt, can it? I mean -"
"Ten days, no sex, got it," Davey says, leaning down to kiss Freddy before grabbing more food from the fridge. "Blech," he says, making a face when he pulls away. "I am only doing this on the condition that you never ordering battered squid again."
"Deal," Freddy says, because worse comes to worse, he can just invest heavily in mouthwash, but you can't invest in sex you're not having.
- - -
It never ceases to amaze Freddy how much free stuff Davey manages to get just by virtue of being Davey. If Davey asks for anything in stores, he always manages somehow not just get a sample or discount, but to have it put on the house with a wink and a smile. "It's not that complicated," Davey always swears. "People do these things for you if you don't yell at them or make snide comments."
"People do that because you're so fucking cute and they're trying to steal you from me," Freddy says. "I worked in retail. I saw how that saleslady was looking at you." And then Davey always gets all flustered and flushed and adorable, and Freddy stops being angry, because:
a) free shit
b) Davey is so cute he wants to die, and
c) this just proves the saleslady has excellent taste.
But the point is, Davey comes home one day, and after kissing him hello says, "So Mitzi's going to have a trainer come to the house."
"I thought we ruled out me turning tricks on street corners," Freddy says, blinking at Davey.
"For free," Davey says proudly, like this never happens. "Turns out Travis -"
"Who?"
"Intern," Davey says. "Tall kid, black, plays cello..."
"No idea," Freddy says. Davey's got five interns and he couldn't tell the little bastards apart if there was a gun to his head.
"Crush on Anya," Davey reminds him. It's taken Davey two weeks, but he's finally sorted out that the reason all the interns are horrible is because they're too nerdy and repressed to deal with their rampant hormones. Freddy had spent an entire night explaining why this caused inefficiency in normal adolescents before Davey came up with a terribly complicated and ever-rotating responsibilities chart that has somehow managed to evolve due to fluctuating crushes and produce a professional, productive atmosphere, which Freddy thinks is both genius and ridiculously, amazingly adorable.
"Now runs the copy machine?" Freddy asks.
"Yeah," Davey says, "and he does the coffee runs too, because Sophie and Dustin hooked up in the strings storage closet and now Emily's mad at both of them."
"And this has to do with our demonic dog because?" Freddy asks, gesturing for Davey to go on.
"Apparently his mom is starting up a training business and needs good references," Davey says, "plus, this is the only time Travis hasn't been fired for being an incompetent idiot, so she's pretty grateful."
"Don't you not have the power to fire interns?" Freddy asked. "Didn't you already try that with Dustin because he's a man-whore who ruins your glorious chart at least once a week?"
"Yeah," Davey says tiredly, "but are you really going to tell that to the very nice lady who wants to train the beast for free?"
"No," says Freddy. "And by the way, Mitzi chewed a hole in your X-marks-the-spot boxers today. And not even on the X, either."
"Bummer," Davey says, sounding too tired to really care as he leans his head on Freddy's shoulder.
- - -
Freddy is absolutely terrified of their new trainer, Jill. She's just a little taller than Davey, and her large, poofy ponytail tickles Freddy's chin whenever she whirls around. She is scary and efficient and Freddy thinks she's either going to go on an organizing binge in their apartment or murder them in their sleep. And, in his defense, the dog is also petrified of her.
"Of course the dog is petrified of her," Davey hisses to Freddy, who is standing arms crossed in the kitchen and glaring as Jill sits down as if meditating, waiting for Mitzi to come out from under the table. "She's going to whip her into shape, I bet she can, like, smell it. Plus, you're acting all freaked out."
"I'm freaked out because our dog's freaked out!" Freddy whispers defensively. "She loves everyone including our fucking creepy super, okay? And she's hiding with her tail between her legs."
"Calm down," Davey says, "look, she's coming out from under the table." Freddy watches suspiciously as their dog slinks out from behind the chair, ears flat, belly to the ground, tail standing straight out and quivering. Calmly, Jill offers one hand to Mitzi to sniff. She does, slowly, gives it a tiny lick, and then runs back over to hide behind Freddy and Davey's feet. "She's kind of wimpy," Davey says apologetically, picking Mitzi up, her tiny paws curling around his neck.
"That's because you let her be that way," Jill says, radiating and distant disapproval as she stands up, like she thinks they're a bunch of morons but doesn't really care about them at all. It's Freddy's least favorite kind of disapproval, and he doesn't really like it in any form at all. "If you had continued to ignore her, she would have been fine."
"She would have cried," Freddy says defensively. "That's not," he makes air quotes, "fine."
"She's doing it because she knows it gets your attention," Jill says. Her eyes are large and buggy behind her glasses, and Freddy thinks perhaps they can see his soul. "You have to set boundaries, and you have to stick to them. Right now, she's in charge."
"She can't be in charge," Freddy argues, even though he knows that Jill is right, the dog is running their lives, and if she wasn't, Jill wouldn't be there. "I can pick her up. That makes me in charge."
"I see," Jill says calmly. "And Freddy, who would you say wears the pants in your relationship, you or Davey?"
"But our dog doesn't wear pants," Davey interjects weakly while Freddy's gaping.
"I meant, who's in charge?"
"Me," Freddy says, his brow furrowed. Next to him, Davey coughs. "What?" Freddy asks, turning to him.
"No, you're right," Davey says guilelessly. "You're completely in charge. I follow everything you say." Freddy is getting the distinct impression that this is one of those conversations he's going to regret having.
"What?" He asks. "Was I supposed to say something different?"
"Of course not," Davey says, eyes wide and innocent. "After all, you're in charge, so you know exactly what to say."
"I..." Freddy closes his mouth, opens it, and closes it again. "I hate you," he finally mutters.
"So as I have just demonstrated," Jill says smoothly, "size has nothing to do with who is in control."
Freddy hates when other people are right, which is why he still hates Davey, and his stupidly attractive face, and their stupidly cute dog, and everything, which is just fucking stupid. He folds his arms and glares.
- - -
After two weeks, Freddy grudgingly accepts that Jill is a miracle worker. He's been able to have sex for four days in a row, and on the fourth day, after his requisite rest period, he rolls over to a sleepy, nuzzling Davey and gets to have sex with him again.
"I love you," he says to Jill before she's even come into their apartment.
"Have you told Davey this?" she asks, stepping inside. Mitzi has learned to recognize her now and comes running full tear from the office with Davey in tow, twining hopefully around her legs and doing a shuffly little happy dance.
"Told me what?" Davey asks. His hair is sticking up, which means that the research he'd buried himself into is not going as planned. Freddy reaches over to smooth it down instinctively.
"Told her we're threesome-marrying her," Freddy says. "Because we've been having a lot of sex again."
"Freddy," Davey hisses, turning bright red.
"It's okay," Jill says with a small grin. "Travis' baby sister magically came nine months after he learned to sleep through the night."
"Wow, so many things that did not need to be said are being said," Davey says, twisting out of the grasp of Freddy's inquisitive hands.
"How has the puppy been?" Jill asks, smoothly changing the subject. "Still sits? Understands leave it?"
"Yeah," Freddy says, looking at Davey for support. "Asks to go out, stays, hasn't been bothering us..."
"Except at night," Davey reminds him. "Won't sleep in her bed, remember?"
"That's because it's ugly, Freddy says. "I wouldn't sleep in it either." Somehow, and Freddy doesn't understand why, the bed had lived through The Great Pink Purge. Davey thinks it's cute, with all it's sherbet-colored pinstripes. Freddy thinks it makes him want to vomit. But Mitzi has already grown out of her pink puppy collar and into a smart red leather one, so Freddy keeps his mouth shut, though this is more out of a lack of willingness to find a new one more than any love he has for Davey.
"Well, I wouldn't worry about that too much," Jill says. "She's always slept in bed with you."
"I like her in bed," Davey says, leaning down to pick up Mitzi and cuddling her to him as if Freddy is trying to rip his baby from his arms.
"And I like morning sex," Freddy says. "Also, I'm cuter."
"If I could interrupt," Jill says, "there is a way to make her like her bed more and be willing to sleep there unless invited that's quite simple. Do either of you have old t-shirts you don't want anymore?"
"Freddy does," Davey says darkly. "Why?"
"I think she'll go easier if she can smell you two," Jill says, leading the way into the bedroom, which is messier than Davey would like, if Freddy is reading his tense shoulders correctly as he rummages for two old t-shirts in their "do not wear except for dire straits" drawer.
"Here," Davey says, handing over an undershirt of his that's bordering on see-through and an old gray shirt of Freddy's with navy writing.
"Aw, no way," Freddy whines, "are you giving her that shirt Franz gave me?"
"Yes," Davey says.
"It's the coolest shirt ever," Freddy begs. "I got it from for my twenty-first birthday!"
"It says 'FBI - Female Body Inspector' on it," Davey said. "Do I really need to explain myself?"
"It's ironic, Freddy explains patiently. "Hence the hilarity." Davey just levels an eyebrow, and Freddy sighs. "Fine," he says. "I sacrifice it in the name of morning sex."
"Thank you," Davey says, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and watching Jill cover the bed with the two shirts, Mitzi peeking out of Davey's arms, her ears pricked forward excitedly.
"Lets see how she likes it," Jill says, giving a last tug so most of the wording on Freddy's shirt is obscured by the hem of Davey's. "Let her down." Gingerly, Davey sets Mitzi on the floor and she makes a beeline for Jill, tail wagging and paws flailing everywhere before skidding to a stop in front of her covered bed. She stops and sniffs it before her tail starts up again and she ventures onto it, turning around in three circles and then collapsing with a sigh, looking upwards for approval.
"Oh my god," Davey says, his voice tiny and awed. "You are a genius."
Freddy blinks down at their now-covered (non-ugly, not girly) dog bed and their now-obedient dog, and then at Jill, her face as impassive as ever. "I think I want to make out with you," he says hoarsely.
"That's quite alright," Jill says.
- - -
Part Three